Seen It All and Done the Rest (5 page)

She leaned down and picked up her blanket and threw it over her shoulder. “Good night, Mafeenie,” she said, leaning down to kiss the top of my head.

“Good night, my darlin’,” I said, as she started up the path to the house.

“Je t’aime,”
she called back over her shoulder, addressing me with the perfect French accent Howard taught her when she was fifteen and tired of sounding like an American.

“I love you, too,” I said, and heard her close the back door behind her as she went inside. I was alone and the yard was silent and wonderfully peaceful. I wondered how the people who lived here had been able to leave it to head off into a war zone. I hoped they were the kind of folks who carried their peace with them. The trip was catching up to me now and I indulged a giant yawn, but I still didn’t feel like going inside, so I curled up under my blanket instead and waited to see if I could catch that mermaid having her midnight swim.

EIGHT

Z
ora was as good as her word. In the morning, I heard her moving around quietly and then the sound of her little Civic as she pulled away just before seven. It was still dark outside and I gave myself permission to turn over and go right back to sleep, which I did. The best way to avoid jet lag is to let your body handle the transition on its own terms. Those last few hours were exactly what I needed and I woke up at nine thirty feeling refreshed and ready to explore. I had unpacked last night when I finally gave up on the mermaid and came inside at three thirty and it was nice to be able to open the closet and see my things hanging neatly like they belonged there.

I reached in for black pants and a turtleneck, my current street uniform of choice, slipped on a pair of my favorite walking shoes, and grabbed my coat. I had poked around in Zora’s kitchen last night and although it was beautifully appointed with an impressive array of gleaming appliances and a ring of copper-bottom pots hanging over the stove, the only things in the refrigerator were a few bottles of water, a couple of Styrofoam containers that I didn’t even bother to open, and a jar of kosher dill pickles. The freezer held a half-empty bottle of vodka. Part of my mission today was to find the nearest grocery store and stock up on everything. But first I needed some caffeine and a paper to be sure I hadn’t missed anything really awful while I was sleeping. I tucked the extra key and a couple of dollars into my pocket and headed for the West End News.

The day was chilly, but it felt good. The sky was blue and cloudless. I took a deep breath of the morning air and geared my pace to a stroll not a stride. Left to my own devices, I’m a fast walker, but I wanted to get a feel for the neighborhood, and that calls for a different speed altogether.

The houses on each side of Zora’s temporary digs were Victorians, too. One with a big, wraparound porch and the other with the most elaborate curlicues I’d seen so far. The street was empty except for two young men coming toward me about a half a block away. They looked to be in their late teens, with big hooded jackets and blindingly white tennis shoes. I wondered if they were on their way to school or on their way to work. I hoped those were the only two choices, although I wasn’t really concerned. I was always pretty good at being able to distinguish between the good guys and the bad guys and these two were laughing and talking like old friends, not coconspirators.

Besides, I knew I was invisible to them. Women my age no longer show up on the scan of men under the age of forty-five. This is, for me, a very recent development and I’m still trying to figure out how I feel about it. Until a couple of years ago, I was used to men not only wanting to talk to me, but wanting to sleep with me, but it’s all different after fifty. I tried not to admit it, but reality has a way of making you see the truth. One night at a reception, when I was just shy of fifty-five, a handsome young thing was chatting me up in a corner, and I was chatting right back, when he leaned over, put his lips against my ear, and confided that he had always had a thing for older women. It took me a minute to realize he meant
me,
which pretty much killed the mood I’d been working on. I excused myself, claiming a sudden headache, went back to my room, crawled into bed, and pulled the covers up over my head.
An older woman?
This would take some getting used to.

And it did. It still does. There’s really nothing that compares to the realization that men are not looking anymore. Oh, if you’re standing on the stage with a light on you, they’re looking, but I mean out in the world where you’re just a real person, trust me, no men are looking. I’m not complaining. It’s just a fact. Even if you are truly stylish, they’re only looking at your clothes, which also means they’re probably gay. But the look from every straight man you pass that evaluates you as a possible sexual partner? That look is gone and it isn’t coming back.

That made me sad at first. Not so sad I considered shooting Botox into my face or sewing bags of saline solution into my body to make my breasts look bigger, but definitely a little nostalgic. At first, it was hard to adjust. I’d see a young man approaching and suck in my stomach out of pure habit even though I knew he would probably not pay me the slightest attention as we passed like ships in the cross-generational night.

Then I realized that all this new invisibility had an upside. I could stop considering random men’s sexual evaluations when I encountered them on the public streets. I no longer had to wear high heels, tight pants, or low-cut dresses unless I wanted to. Not that I’ve always dressed to please men, but as long as there was the possibility of more intimate contact, I wanted to please the eye, as well as stimulate the sex and boggle the mind. But without that possibility, I could simply dress for comfort, protection from the elements, and my own amusement, which is what I began to do. The more I did it, the more I liked it; now I don’t even suck in my stomach anymore. The young men passed me deep in conversation without giving me a second glance and I walked the rest of the quiet block with the double satisfaction of having my theory of invisibility check out one more time and of knowing I truly didn’t care.

I walked on, enjoying my solitude and wondering if I should fix Zora something special for dinner to tempt her appetite and how far I’d have to go to find some fresh food. It didn’t take long for me to find out. When I turned onto Abernathy, it was already bustling with people on their way to work, doing some shopping, or catching up with friends at the barbershop. The twenty-four-hour salon was as full as it had been the night before. Across the street, I saw a small market that I hadn’t even noticed yesterday that was already welcoming a steady stream of customers. If they had a decent produce section, I was home free. Now all I needed was a cup of espresso and a newspaper. Zora had assured me that the West End News had both.

Stepping inside, I felt like I was suddenly back in Amsterdam, except the cappuccino didn’t come with an invitation to roll your own. There were racks of papers and periodicals from all over the world and students with backpacks ordering the daily special blend to go. There were people sitting at small tables, catching up like Howard and I used to do every day of our lives. At the counter, there were two men who seemed to be regulars arguing about the sorry state of one or another of Atlanta’s sports teams while the large, serene-looking man behind the counter refilled their cups without being asked.

Stacked near the front door were
The New York Times
,
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
,
The Washington Post
, and
The Atlanta Sentinel
. I grabbed one of each. There were also copies of several international papers. I picked up
Le Monde
and the London
Times
and moved over to the counter to place my order.

“Here or to go?” the counterman said with a smile. He reminded me of those fat Buddahs I collected for a while—if Buddah had worn a spotless white apron and a pair of perfectly pressed black pants.

“Here,” I said, looking around for a seat near the window. I spotted a tiny table tucked into a little nook out of the path to and from the counter. It had a perfect view of the street.

The man behind the counter nodded. “I’ll bring it right over.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I sat down and scanned the papers to see which one caught my eye.
The New York Times
and
The Washington Post
were both full of the latest war news.
Le Monde
had French election coverage, and the London
Times
was clucking its tongue over the latest escapades of the doomed Diana’s grown sons. The headline in the
Constitution
trumpeted the city’s declining crime rate and praised the mayor for her innovative approach to community policing. All important stories, but none that seemed particularly suited to accompany my morning caffeine, so I sat back and just gazed out the window. It felt good to be here. I can’t say it felt like home, but it was close enough.

My Buddah with the big white apron came out from behind the counter and brought my espresso, complete with the little lemon twist that isn’t required but is always missed.

“We’ve got some lovely croissants this morning,” he said, trying to tempt me.

“No, thank you,” I said. “This is fine.”

“Well, just let me know if you need anything. I’m Henry.”

“Josephine,” I said.

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” he said, heading back to his post where two girls with backpacks and iPod headphones in their ears were waiting to pay for their coffee. I wondered if they were together and, if they were, if they talked around the music, or just walked along together, each one in her own universe of separate sounds.

I took a sip of the strong, hot brew and realized he knew his customers well enough to spot a stranger immediately. That’s the thing about West End that I always enjoy. It feels more like a small town than a big-city neighborhood with skyscrapers in its backyard and a rapid-rail system carrying people to the busiest airport in the world fifteen minutes away. I wished for a minute that my mother had bought her duplex over here, before I remembered that when she bought the place, black folks weren’t allowed to buy these houses.

As I sat there, sipping my espresso and getting my bearings, the door opened and a woman entered in a long, dark green skirt, a bright orange shawl, and a pair of hot pink Chinese slippers with roses embroidered on each toe. Her short, curly hair was pulled away from her face and behind her, she trailed the faintest scent of patchouli.

“Good morning, Miss A,” Henry said as she stepped up to the counter. “The usual?”

“Good morning, Henry. Thank you.”

The woman looked to be about my age, give or take a year or two, and something about her looked so familiar I almost smiled and said good morning. Did I know her? I grew up in Atlanta, but I almost never see anybody from those days on my infrequent visits and when I do, I can’t hardly ever remember their names. What did the
A
stand for?

“You two settle the season yet?” she said, her voice teasing the two at the counter who had nodded their good mornings when she first came in. Their discussion seemed to have ended in a draw that didn’t please either one and they were sulking.

“This Negro doesn’t know a good first baseman from a hole in the ground,” said the one with the houndstooth jacket.

The one in the stingy-brim hat just snorted and rolled his eyes. “At least I know what a shortstop does.”

Henry chuckled as he expertly added a sprinkle of cinnamon to the takeout cup of cappuccino, which must have been “the usual.”

“Don’t get them all riled up again, Miss A,” Henry said. “They’re running my customers away with all that mess.”

She laughed, a sweetly musical sound, as Henry handed her a cup with a cardboard sleeve so it wouldn’t be too hot on her walk to wherever she was going. Was it Anna? Adelaide? Ava? Abbie?
Abbie!
Could this be Abbie from D.C.? How long had it been since I’d seen her? Twenty years? Thirty? Was it Amsterdam? Paris? She looked almost exactly the same as I remembered her and she still smelled like patchouli, which was always her trademark scent.

“Sorry about that,” she said, handing over five dollars and declining her change. “I thought you two had called a truce.”

“Ain’t nobody studying you, Henry,” the slightly older man said.

“Besides,” said the one with the hat, turning fully toward Abbie with a twinkle. “We only come in here to wish you good day, Miss Abbie, and you know that!”

It was her! Abbie Browning, live and in living color. What the hell was she doing in West End?

“Mr. Charles, does your wife know you’re out here flirting so early in the morning?”

“No, and don’t you tell her,” he said, holding up his hands in mock terror. “That woman ain’t got no sense of humor when it comes to me.”

“She married you, didn’t she?” the other one said. “How much more sense of humor she gotta have?”

Henry laughed at that and so did Abbie.

“What do you hear from Hamilton?” Mr. Charles said.

“The song is done and Gina said it’s a shoo-in to win the Carnival competition.”

The two men nodded in unison and smiled as if hearing that a favorite nephew had just been accepted to college.

“We ought to go down there for the show and surprise them,” Mr. Charles said.

The other one rolled his eyes again. “That would surprise them all right. Two old fools trying to keep up with the young folks.”

Abbie shook her head. “It’s not like that, Mr. Eddie. Everybody goes to Carnival. Old people, young people. The streets are full of all kinds of people dancing and singing and drinking that Trinidadian beer they buy off the trucks. What’s it called?”

She looked at Henry, but he just chuckled and patted his ample belly. “Last time I went to Carnival people were still calling me
Slim.
The only thing I remember is all the beautiful girls.”

Mr. Eddie poked his friend. “Then Charlie ain’t gotta worry about going. Iona ain’t takin’ him no place like that.”